


Let the Fire Run Its Course

by jeniezee



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeniezee/pseuds/jeniezee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta discovers alcohol can do more than numb the pain.</p>
<p>PiP Day 1: Visual Prompt: Haymitch’s liquor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Fire Run Its Course

“That drunken fool. Some mentor, he is. How is he expected to keep us alive when he’s a barely functioning old man,” Peeta mutters angrily as he watches Haymitch’s white liquor swirl around the drain. As he pours the vile drink into the basin, the harsh smell of the liquid fills the space and burns his nostrils. It’s reminiscent of the rubbing alcohol his father used to apply to his wounds as a child. 

As he finishes the first bottle and starts on the second, Peeta wonders how Haymitch can stand to put this in his body, coursing through his veins every waking moment. How desperate must he be to willingly drink this… 

Peeta pauses, tilts the bottle upwards slightly, then stills his hand over the sink as comprehension settles in his mind. Haymitch was driven to this life by the Capitol, what they did to him, to his family, to Maysilee. He barely functions, but he does. He survived, still lives with the nightmares of surviving, forced to take part in something that drives him to drink more. His perpetual drunken stupor is what keeps him alive. 

It allows him to cope.

Peeta begins to see the appeal. He needs to be able to cope with what’s happening in his life. What’s left of his life. He knows he won’t return home to his family, the family who all but abandoned him following the Games. But they are his family, the only one he has. 

Won’t return to Katniss. Katniss. His grip on the bottle tightens. He can’t dwell on her deception, her inability to return his feelings, to even understand his feelings. No, he can’t dwell on the dream of a life with her that’s no longer possible. 

He has to cope. He must be strong for her. She has to survive. 

Slowly, he brings the bottle closer to his lips, the vapors escaping the opening nearly overwhelming. He ignores the revolting smell and takes a swig. The liquid leaves a trail of fire in its path. He gags as his throat burns from the inside out. He coughs violently, immediately regretting his decision. He moves to dump the poison, but as the burning subsides, he notices the haze beginning to settle in his mind. His thoughts become a little less sharp; a certain numbness spreads through his body.

He draws the bottle closer once more and takes another swig, emptying his mind of his troubles and steeling himself for the fight to come.

\-------------------

It comes without warning. A sharp pain stabs his brain, momentarily blinding him. Peeta slams his fists down on the counter top, seeking release from the pain radiating through his body. The pain is so severe and all-consuming, he doesn’t feel the shards of shattered ceramic embedded in his hand. He catches sight of red in the corner of his eye. He glances down, sees the blood freely flowing, pooled around his fist. It feels foreign, disconnected. He raises his fist; serpentine red streams creep down his forearm. 

“You’re becoming like her,” an ephemeral whisper echoes in his ear. “A mutt.”

“No,” Peeta utters meekly, with as much conviction as a broken child.

“You can’t feel,” the voice goads. “You’re not human. Just. Like. Her.”

“No,” Peeta responds more forcefully. “No, no, NO!” he screams, the anguished cries echo off the walls of his empty home. 

His arms swing wildly, blood splattering over every surface of his immaculate kitchen, searching for something, anything to grasp. His bloody hand closes around a rolling pin. He squeezes his fist. Hard. 

Nothing. He feels nothing. He watches the blood seep through the cracks between his fingers, coating the rolling pin. He throws it against the nearest wall as hard as he can. The two forces collide with a resonating crack, leaving behind a blood-outlined hole. 

Rage overtakes him, the counters are cleared, cabinets torn open, dishes smashed. As he purges a shelf of glasses, relishing in the symphony of shattered crystal, he spots it. A clear unmarked bottle of clear liquid. 

He wants to feel. He needs to feel the pain and burn of the white liquor. He snatches the bottle from the shelf, stepping over the layer of glass shards with no regard. He throws himself onto the couch, roughly untwists the cap, and guzzles from the bottle until the liquid overflows and runs down the corners of his mouth. 

He welcomes the fire. Is forever attracted to it. He drinks until he can no more, when the vivid visions of mutts and death blur and nothing is left but blackness. 

\-------------------

His eyes roam over the sleeping form in front of him. A small smile affixed on his face as he watched her sleep the past hour. He moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ears. She lets out a soft sigh and nestles closer to him, her free hand blinding roaming the space between them until it rests on his bare chest, directly on top of his increasingly beating heart. 

He is still amazed at the effect she has on him after all these years, even after the intimate act shared prior that night. Even after, a single touch sends jolts through his body, and his heart races with the contact. His wildly thumping heart overwhelms his senses in the silent room, and he fears the sound and motion might wake her. 

He knows sleep will not come. So, he gently lifts her hand from his chest and carefully places it in the spot he occupied as he quietly slides off the bed. She protests softly from the loss of contact with that scowl he loves so much before nuzzling her face into the pillow. 

He noiselessly pulls on his pajama bottoms and lightly pads out of the room before descending the stairs with equally soft footfalls. He heads for the kitchen, retrieving a glass from the cabinets before opening the pantry door, and pulling out a bottle of white liquor from behind the sacks of flour. He pours himself a glass and moves towards the living room, groping around blindly in the dark until he safely plants himself on the couch.

After the incident in which Katniss found him drunk, bleeding, deliriously exhausted from his episode, she strongly implied she did not want him near liquor, convinced the alcohol could have been deadly in his already vulnerable state. Peeta thought it best not to argue as she was the one who cleansed his wounds and nursed him back to health. But he kept a few bottles, hidden away amongst his baking supplies, where she never ventures, because they keep the monsters at bay. It dulls the senses, not allowing the shiny memories to grasp hold of him.

He takes a sip from his glass, wincing at the familiar burn creeping down his throat. But he relishes the fuzziness that begins to take hold. He needs to depress his racing heart and the frenzy of thoughts invading his mind.

He can’t help but question if the events of last night were real. Right now, at this moment, he is happy. These can’t be used to break him. He needs this to be real. The soft kisses that took months to revive. The deeper, more forceful kisses they lead to. The frenzied movement of limbs to rid the barriers between them. The feel of her soft, perfect breasts in his hands, on his tongue. The warmth of her surrounding him. The gasp of pleasure as her back arches above the bed.

Feeling the effects of the liquor take hold, he finishes the contents of the glass, lays his head back, closes his eyes and awaits sleep by reliving her every touch and every moan and constantly replaying her last words, “real.”  
\-------------------

“Stop worrying, boy. She’ll be here.” Haymitch guarantees, his tone exasperated. 

“If she was going to leave you, she would’ve done it well before now.” 

Peeta halts his pacing and turns sharply, glaring incredulously at him with his jaw slack and bright blue eyes wide.

Haymitch can’t stifle the laugh bubbling to the surface, escaping his lips like a bark as he takes in Peeta’s expression, a caricature of himself. 

“Relax,” Haymitch softens his tone, attempting to assure him once more. “Here,” he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a gold flask. “To calm your nerves.”

Peeta’s eyes quickly flicker to the container before ignoring the older man and resuming his pacing. Despite the unseasonably chilly weather, beads of sweat are forming beneath his curls from this exertion. For the fifth time since they arrived, Peeta looks up at the large clock atop the Justice Building, with each subsequent glance only increasing his anxiety. He has since memorized the façade of the timekeeper. If his mind weren’t racing with all the undesirable possibilities, he would stop to admire the sleek steel structure erected during the district rebuild. It’s a simple metal frame save for numbers in a decorative script and the arms shaped like the tips of arrows. Each tick of the arm only further reminds him that Katniss is more than 30 minutes late to the signing of their marriage license. This act is only symbolic as they had the toasting ceremony, officially establishing their marriage, a few days earlier. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that she is late. 

Just as he’s about to remark again to Haymitch just how late she is, he sees Katniss come running in the distance. 

“Peeta,” she huffs, slightly wheezing and out of breath. “I am so sorry. I was helping Thom and the guys haul the deer I shot to the Hob,” she resumes, pride radiating with every word. “I--“

Before she can continue, Peeta interrupts as he takes in her appearance. “Oh my god, Katniss, what happened?” Her pants are torn and frayed, her face smeared with dirt with a few light scratches on her cheek, and her braid almost completely unraveled and teased like nest on top of her head. 

She scoffs and waves her hand dismissively as Peeta runs his hands over her face and torso, turning her head from side to side, inspecting every mark and blemish.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she begins flippantly, “a wild boar surprised me and I had to climb the nearest tree, which had absolutely no footholds, but when I was in the tree, I saw a deer. This winter has been so long that--“

He’s unable to concentrate on the rest of story as she continues to animatedly recall the event, waving her hands wildly to recreate the scene. He can only focus on the vision before him. So feral and full of life. He thinks she has never looked more beautiful. 

“Come on,” her voice breaks him out of his reverie. “Are we going to do this? I need to get down to the Hob before all the good cuts of meat are taken,” she states impatiently, already halfway up the stairs. 

“That’s one good woman you have there,” Haymitch laughs gruffly, watching her enter the building. “She’ll keep the meat on your bones.”

“Yes, she will,” Peeta agrees, his contentment reflected in his smile. 

Haymitch grows serious and turns towards Peeta. “You take good care of her, boy. Now it’s up to you to look after her.”

“I always have, Haymitch,” Peeta states simply. He accepts the flask, raises cool metal to his still turned up lips, and tilts his head back to take a large gulp.

“Always.”

\-------------------

The sun sits low on the horizon as he reaches Haymitch’s door. In one hand he clutches a bottle of white liquor, one he dug out after so many years of storage, the other hand gives three quick knocks, only as a courtesy before letting himself in. He notes the lack of putrid scent that usually saturates the space; it smells almost. . . pleasant

He enters the foyer and veers left into the living room. He sees Haymitch sitting in the large chair by the window, staring out at his geese pen.

Haymitch eyes the bottle in his hand, gives a gruff scoff and a knowing nod.

“Boy, if you’re here to apologize, you’re about 15 years too late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, old man. Hope you’ve been brushing up on yours. You owe me enough to last a lifetime,” Peeta returns, throwing a quick smile over his shoulder as he walks towards the kitchen. 

Haymitch gives a quick grunt and chuckle. “If you’re here to talk about your feelings, the girl should be home soon. Go cry to her. Leave the bottle.”

Peeta gives a small chuckle. He grabs two glasses from the counter, bringing them up to his eyes to inspect them in the light. His corners of his lips turn and his forehead creases with approval. He turns and walks back to the Haymitch with glasses and bottle in hand. 

“No,” he answers simply, setting down the glasses on the small wooden table in front of Haymitch, the surface stained with the ring marks from years of neglect. “She didn’t go into the woods today. She’s at home right now,” he continues as he untwists the cap of the bottle. 

Peeta starts pouring Haymitch a glass, when he raises his palm to indicate enough. Peeta raises an eyebrow and gives a small smirk. He sits in the chair opposite to Haymitch and begins filling his own glass. 

“No,” he begins. “I’m here to give you some news.” 

He pauses briefly to take a sip, noting how much the taste has mellowed since his first drink. The aroma of clear liquid no longer burns his nostrils and now travels down his throat without the sensation of burning his insides.

Haymitch, too, notices the difference in taste and gives a quick look of disgust, but otherwise offers no protest. He waits for Peeta to continue, silence filling the space between them. The only sounds are the honking of the geese filtering in from the yard.

Peeta looks out into the geese pen. “Good to see you’re keeping them alive. You do have a knack for this particular skill.”

The corner of Haymitch’s lips turns up as he takes another sip from his glass. “Gotten better over the years.”

“Good,” Peeta states, setting down his drink. “Keep it up. You’re going to be a grandfather.”

Haymitch lets out a deep guffaw, the first true, joyful laugh Peeta recalls hearing from his former mentor in years. His drink sloshes precariously close to the rim as his body shakes from the laughter.

“The girl let you knock her up,” he hollers, shaking his head with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, boy.” He raises his glasses, “Well, I’ll drink to that.” 

Peeta lifts his glass in return and takes a sip, his mind filling with dreams of the good times ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
